The Infernal Regions: Part 3

Oh, and when I finally planted my bony posterior into what could be one of the most uncomfortable chairs, I decided to check on whether Mr. Numbskull’s still alive; I was half-hoping though he got swept up by an asteroid. And goodness was I shocked with what I beheld.

A throng of passing Korean tourists requested for a photo-op with him!

I cringed as I watched the excited Koreans pose beside him. The arrangement was like this: 2 Koreanas on his left side making “peace” signs with their pallid fingers, 2 Koreanos on the other side while our hero dunked one hand into the water (the other wagging), smiling before the camera! Geezzzzuusss!

They must be very amused with the jerk. They must be thinking, “These Filipino people sure are a ridiculous bunch! Full-grown people making a total fool out of themselves!”

Anyway…

The neon-clad, Mafia-lord-slash-lost golfer-slash-waiter approached my table and handed me the menu. “Good afternoon, Sir!” he croaked. I glanced at the menu for awhile, and handed it back to him.

“Coffee, please…”

“Ai Sir!” he said, scratching his head. “We're really sorry, sira po kasi yung brewing machine namin…”

“What!? No Coffee!? Do you have any idea how much hell I went through just to have coffee!? Do you want me to kick your behind all the way to Havana Cuba!? Hah!? Hah!?” I screamed, in my head.

I, then, pulled down my pennon, and heaved a sigh of defeat. Just my luck, I thought.

Now the last retort, having coffee while beret-donning waitresses scamper about. I marched towards the French coffee shop, held my breath and walked in. Bonjour Monsieur!

Good, there’s coffee! Now, if I could just find some Visine.

The Infernal Regions: Part 2

Yet again, another quandary, that of the two remaining coffee shops. (There are only 5 shops at this side of the mall, but EBUN doesn't fall under my coffee shop category.) Think, think.

Aside from the quality of coffee, I also take into careful consideration the ambiance of the place. I mulled over the situation, the pros and cons as I stood there under the shade of palm trees in the middle of the piazza, looking like a complete idiot.

Coffee Shop # 1: Café Havana

Pros: I love Cuba. I admire Fidel Castro. And I am a sucker for Latinas, especially when they get into those snuggly-fit, skimpy bikinis. Adrianna Lima! Ooh and, and. Enough!

Cons: The waiters! They looked like those antediluvian Mafia lords from The Godfather trilogy, who resigned from their kingdoms for some career growth, that is of becoming a waiter. Or some lost golfer who couldn’t find their way to the country club.

Coffee Shop # 2: Café Breton

Pros: I am obsessed with France, and everything that’s got to do with the place. I detest Napoleon though, but that’s a different story. The shop’s interior design’s classy, so … err … French! C'est parfait! Nah, not really.

Cons: Man, those red and blue berets! Outta here! The waiters look like displaced Nazi soldiers from centuries back. Those berets! Those berets! Man, they’re so … I’m lost for words!

So there I was, chewing over my plight when I noticed some dork playing with the fountain in the middle of the square. He appears to be a little over 30, was wearing a pair of denim shorts and was clasping a bag in one of his armpits.

I observed him for a couple of seconds; he seemed to enjoy what he’s doing for he was grinning while the water jets splashed unto his hands. What a strange guy, I thought.

Then he became aware that someone’s looking at him. He looked at me with the What-Are-You-Looking-At (!?) look. I responded with the Aren’t-You-A-Bit-Too-Old-To-Be-Playing-With-The-Fountain (?) look. He, then, countered with the So-What (!?) look. He looked away subsequently, I also did the same.

I noticed that the people were looking at me, because I look like a jerk standing there under the blistering heat of the sun looking at the pathetic person who’s looking at the lookie-look. I looked, he looked, and everyone looked! Look look look! Oh look, lots of looks! Where was I, look?

Nah, I'm just testing if you're still with me.

Back to the issue-at-hand: Cuba or France?

After thorough consideration, I picked the Mafia lords over the Nazi soldiers and made my way towards Café Havana. While I despised the garbs of the two aforesaid coffee shops maître d's, I opted for the less laughable one. Those berets were just eyesores. They gotta go!

(to be concluded...)

The Infernal Regions: Part 1

Buzz.

I awoke at the sound of the alarm clock. Wha-!? I wondered. 8 o’clock!? (Man!)

I forced myself into a vertical position and went to the bathroom. I took a bath at lightning-speed, skipped breakfast (as usual), and dashed out of the gate. I’m late for school!

Sprinted towards Shaw Boulevard, and waited for a cab. I waited, and waited, and waited. Arg! Ever wonder why taxi cabs suddenly vanish when you’re in a hurry and are in abundance when you don’t need them?

Hmp, I can smell some whacked-up conspiracy going on. I opted to take the jeepney instead. Heavy traffic, naturally, it’s a Monday.

In the PM. Holiday! Yay! No work! I have plenty of time to kill. But where would I do the killing? A flashbulb, then, went off inside my brain. Ting! Greenbelt.

I boarded the train, and prayed I would be able to walk out intact. The MRT is my theatre of war, and riding in it has always been my war story, but that’s beside the point.

The sun was high-up as I climbed down the Ayala Station stairs. I entered and exited Glorietta (4, then 2), and scaled the pedestrian overpass connecting the two malls.

Reaching Greenbelt 3, the dilemma as to whether I should go to Starbucks or Seattle’s Best, introduced itself to me. Hmp. Starbest? Or Seattle’s Bucks?

Starbucks it is! And as soon as I crossed the doorsill, a strange feeling engulfed me. I gazed at my surroundings and … and … Aak! I am inside the lair of the yuppies!

Coño people rocking the place with Oh-My-Goshes! An army of killer boots! Swarm of XDAs! Piles and piles of laptops! Braces! Eek! This isn’t the Starbucks that I knoow-wa! I quickly ran towards the exit screaming.

Alright, Plan B then. I strode towards Seattle’s Best, with my hopes up. But I stopped dead on my tracks. Alas, another flock of spoiled young metropolitan elites had taken camp at Seattle’s Best. This is one of the many unfortunate situations where I just want to bring out my WCD’s (Weapons of Coño Destruction) and blast these crazy-tizens to smithereens.

(to be concluded...)

Sophie's World (Gaarder)

Sophie's World (Jostein Gaarder)

"This long, dense novel, a bestseller in the author's native Norway, offers a summary history of philosophy embedded in a philosophical mystery disguised as a children's book-but only sophisticated young adults would be remotely interested.

"Sophie Amundsen is about to turn 15 when she receives a letter from one Alberto Knox, a philosopher who undertakes to educate her in his craft. Sections in which we read the text of Knox's lessons to Sophie about the pre-Socratics, Plato and St. Augustine alternate with those in which we find out about Sophie's life with her well-meaning mother. Soon, though, Sophie begins receiving other, stranger missives addressed to one Hilde Moller Knag from her absent father, Albert.

"As Alberto Knox's lessons approach this century, he and Sophie come to suspect that they are merely characters in a novel written by Albert for his daughter. Teacher and pupil hatch a plot to understand and possibly escape from their situation; and from there, matters get only weirder.

"Norwegian philosophy professor Gaarder's notion of making a history of philosophy accessible is a good one. Unfortunately, it's occasionally undermined by the dry language he uses to describe the works of various thinkers and by an idiosyncratic bias that gives one paragraph to Nietzsche but dozens to Sartre, breezing right by Wittgenstein and the most influential philosophy of this century, logical positivism.

"Many readers, regardless of their age, may be tempted to skip over the lessons, which aren't well integrated with the more interesting and unusual metafictional story line." Author tour. Copyright 1994 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

(Review by Amazon.com, Photo by Wikipedia)

Rhum and Ladder .. & Carwash

Ever heard of a board game named Rum and Ladder? No? Just as I thought.

Well basically this game is similar to the well-known board game Snakes and Ladders. The same set of rules, the same playing board, practically everything’s the same. Except for the penalty.

In SnL (not Saturday Night Live!) when a player gets bitten by the snake, he merely places his token to where the snake’s tail’s at. The same with RnL, except you have to guzzle half-glass full of the “Burgundy Juice” as a consequence. And without any chaser. Fair enough huh!? But…

Given that it is an alcohol-ingesting fête (disguised as an innocent game of SnL), there usually sits two glasses for the “tuyok” ['ikot'] (supposing that you employ the Round-Robin method). One serves as the regular tuyok glass, while the other as the penalty glass.

And what normally happens as soon as you’ve gulped down the contents of the penalty glass, your turn for the tuyok glass arrives. Thus explains the facial contortions in the photograph.

Do you want to reduce your chaser expenses and save money (for the next round of Tanduay)? Do you want to get smashed quickly? If you answered Yes, then this is the game for you and your friends. Rum and Ladder is the only sport where every contender is both a winner … and a winner pa rin!

RnL A.M. P.M. Olympics Team: Lyle, Krisan, Princess, Bunot & Cathy. Theme song: “Para sa Iyo ang Cawrash na ‘to!" Why? Secret! Nya-ha-haa! I miss you guys so darn much! “Laaaiinnn kaaaayuuu kaaa Kriii aaaii! Siii Jaaaan Reeex baayaaa kooohh… Aha ha haa…”

Death on an Afternoon: Part 5

Then the air thickened, the lights flickered, a number of heads turned as a flock of attention-grabbing, good-looking, aesthetically-superior humanoids glided through. They seemed as if they just leapt out of the covers of Vogue and GQ.

I suddenly felt like a repulsive platypus amidst a drove of graceful swans. Two members of the “gorgeous-ness squad” caught me looking at them and flashed me the you-can-never-look-as-good-as-me stare, I spontaneously turned into mud.

Consoling myself, I began chanting my mantra: “Had God made me gwapo, I would’ve been perfect. But no one’s perfect, so He instead stuffed a little extra gray matter to compensate for the lack of aesthetic appeal.”

Then, a group of old Indian women, the “dot” kind, not the “feather” kind of Indians, walked past me. Wearing the traditional Sari, they looked so beautiful despite the age. One even looked like Aishwarya Rai (the supermodel). A 350-pound Aishwarya Rai, that is.

The world suddenly turned black-and-white. I spotted a couple ever so publicly displayed their affections, smacking every five seconds. Get a room people! I almost screamed. Tightly clinging on to each other, they reminded me of two leeches sucking each other dry.

Or were they just conjoined twins? Perhaps not, the lady was Caucasian, while the guy was … well … overcooked. (What do you call “tutong” in English? No, not overcooked or burnt rice. A trivia I always forget.) I wondered what they’re offsprings would be like. Dalmatians?

(to be concluded…)

Death on an Afternoon: Part 4

Then, a Goth/punk couple. Of course being Goths, they wore black everything; black garb, black nails, black mascara, black bling-blings (Hmm… I like the sound of it, black bling bling), black everything. The guy, taking Goth-ness to a new level, even had black stains on his teeth. Honestly, I’m not sure if it was an accessory/fashion or he’s teeth were just … bad.

But I’m inclined with a second theory since the stains were all over the place; it’s not pantay (evenly distributed). Well, I dunno, I could be wrong. Or maybe he ate really runny chocolates and forgot to floss.

The gothic chick was rather pretty; black wardrobe against her colorless skin, very soft facial features yet a grim expression plastered across her pixie-like visage, her manananggal-inspired hairstyle framed her small, melanin-deprived face. Just think of Snow White not washing her hair for ten years and you’ll get the picture.

She was wearing very thick mascara; so heavy it was almost impossible to tell whether her eyes were closed or she didn’t have any whites on her eyeballs. But she was attractive nonetheless, she looked like Hilary Duck, I mean Duff, with a neck.

But the guy’s a different story, and far more interesting than the girl. He’s so goddam worthy of note, I’m afraid words cannot suffice. How should I put this? He’s so challenging to describe.

Think of a small featherless chicken dipped in black paint; short legs, stretched upper body, small head, round face, bulging eyes, slightly curved back. I’m lost for words, told you he’s a challenge. Look now, I’m not ridiculing anyone here; in fact, I’m intrigued by his appearance. Besides, I’m in no position to lambaste anyone for their looks because I’m no GQ material either.

Around his thin neck dangled a humongous inverted crucifix that must weigh at least a kilo. No wonder his back seemed bent. Also, he’s sporting a mo-hawk so tall (?) you could easily mistake it for a giant black pamaypay. I thought it was cool, really! I remembered my Goth friend, Paulo, and wondered what he’d look like sporting that look. I chuckled at the idea.

Plus, the lower lip ring, hundreds upon hundreds of bangles that reached all the way to his elbows, that black matte lipstick, that black aura; I wondered what else’s black.

As usual, the conios, and the pa-conios. I thought Florita already drowned these vermins into non-existence. With their huge, bloated heads, I had to walk sidewalks like a crab in order to pass through.

(to be concluded...)

Death on an Afternoon: Part 3

There weren't that much people inside, for a Saturday afternoon. Perhaps the people were scared off by Florita, who according to the news, claimed at least eight lives and caused a landslide in Baguio. Bad Florita, bad. On the other hand, okay lang, at least the odds of me getting smashed into by clumsy insects were slim.

As I have mentioned, not that much mallrats that day. But most of the people I crossed paths with were … how should I put this? … Full of character? Interesting? Out of the ordinary? Worthy of note?

First, I passed by a mother-daughter tandem. They wore identical shirts, they both had pigtails, and both were rather bursting with corpulence. They were the perfect definition of cute-ness!

Mommy was carrying tons and tons of shopping bags, while her equally fleshy daughter was screaming “Mommeee! Ais Kriiim! Mommeee!!” to which Mommy retorted, “Anong ice cream!? Eh kakakain mo lang! Tumigil ka! Sipain kita diyan eh!” The round girl fell silent. For some reason, I remembered the corny joke, Bakit nahihiya ang mga biik? (Ans: Eh kasi yung nanay nila, baboy.)

(to be concluded…)

Death on an Afternoon: Part 2

I flagged down a cab but it just zoomed past me. Then came another one; flagged and zoomed. Was I invisible or were the cabbies just blind? I stood by the curb for the next five minutes, waiting. I lit a cigarette and slowly puffed on the stick, arms interweaving with each other; getting cold now.

As soon as I took my second puff, a cab materialized before me. I found myself trapped in a dilemma of great magnitude: the taxi or the freshly-lit cigarette. After a nano-second of thorough deliberation, I crushed my cigarette and got into the cab.“Sayang…” I muttered.

“Ano ho yun?” the cabbie inquired.
“Ah, wala."
"Makati tayo manong.” I ordered the cabbie.
“Singkwenta po, traffic po kasi sa Edsa.” The meter-calculated fare plus fifty bucks, he meant. Under normal circumstances, I could’ve threatened to hurl the cabbie’s butt to court.

But I wasn’t in a combative mood, so I said “Fire!”

True, traffic’s so severe along Edsa that you actually see the air, diesel fumes painting it brownish-gray. And except for the cabbie’s striking resemblance to Tado on steroids, the drive was long yet uneventful.

I reached my destination with the same expression plastered on my face, the same look as the skeletal guy in my bathroom mirror. Slamming the door behind me, I headed toward the escalator. The guard ran his black electronic palo-palo through my body. Beep! Oh, did I forget to leave the grenade at home? But the guard just nodded and said “Welcome to Greenbelt, Sir!"

Boy was that close!

(to be concluded...)

Death on an Afternoon: Part 1

Being stuck in heavy traffic for several hours is agonizing. Having your molar extracted without an anesthesia is excruciating. But having coffee alone, on a cold Saturday afternoon and being surrounded by a thick mob of cheery people, happy friends and schmaltzy couples, is just painful; pure, unadulterated pain.

One balmy afternoon… Since I have just recovered from a psychosomatic illness, I decided not to go to work, and phoned in sick. Also, I didn’t go to school in the morning. I just stayed in the comforts of my own cave, reading the whole day. Besides, it rained an hour ago and I don’t want to wet the seams of my newly-purchased pants.

So there I was, cuddling under the sheets, reading my Hosseini book, while music from MTV filled the background. And while I lost myself in 1980
Afghanistan, boredom clobbered me in the head. I waved it off like an obnoxious fly; it bounced off the walls and boomeranged towards me again.

Alright, I said, heaving a sigh of defeat. Besides, I’ve wasted almost the entire day chasing kites with Amir and Hassan. Maybe it’s time for me to crawl out from my cave, and let the world behold the biggest loser there is — me.

I dragged my bored-stiff carcass inside this small, white-tiled, four walled box they call the bathroom. Sluggishly, I washed my deflated-balloon-like face and limply ran the toothbrush across my teeth. I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to smile. But the reflection didn’t budge. Smile, I said, smile! Show me those goddam pearly whites! To no avail.

After what seemed like a century and a half desperately coaxing the skeletal guy in the mirror, I emerged from the bathroom; chopstick-legs dragging underneath me. I undressed and re-dressed, grabbed my jacket and cellphone and slipped on my running shoes.

Twisting the doorknob, I walked two paces, hesitated, turned back, paused, reconsidered, turned towards the door, opened it, and at a snail’s pace, crossed the threshold. Still holding the doorjamb, I admired the overcast skies and the lovely scent of the after-rain, when – Bam! – the friggin’ door bit my friggin’ fingers! “Fffff*ck!”

I screamed, and for the first time that day I heard my voice. Massaging my fingers, I realized that I’m still alive. My heart beat for the first time, palpitating so hard it almost leapt out of my chest. I didn’t know shouting expletives could be so therapeutic. F*ck, being the day’s first word. Hurling curses can be so liberating. Try it.

(to be concluded...)

Veronika Decides to Die

Veronika Decides to Die (Paulo Coelho)

"The bestselling Brazilian author of The Alchemist delicately etches this morose but ultimately uplifting story of the suicidal Veronika, who creeps along the boundary between life and death, sanity and madness, happiness and despair. Veronika, 24, works in a library in Ljubljana, Slovenia, and rents a room in a convent; she is an attractive woman with friends and family, but feelings of powerlessness and apathy tempt her to find "freedom" in an overdose of sleeping pills.

"When Veronika awakens in the purgatory of Villete, the country's famous lunatic asylum, she is told her suicide attempt weakened her heart and she has only days to live. At this point, Coelho takes a role in the novel; he describes the circumstances under which he discovered Veronika's story and then recounts his own youthful incarceration in a Brazilian sanatorium, consigned there by parents who couldn't understand his "unusual behavior."

"As quickly as he drops in, however, he drops out again, relying on interior monologues to set scenes. In a sedative-induced haze, Veronika finds companionship in white-haired Mari, who suffers from panic attacks, and Eduard, an ambassador's son who has been diagnosed as schizophrenic, and she begins to question the definition of insanity. It is her supposed death sentence from the devious Dr. Igor, who is trying to shock her back into reality, that allows Veronika to reacquire the will to live and love. Employing his trademark blend of religious and philosophical overtones, Coelho focuses on his central question: why do people go on when life seems unfair and fate indifferent?

"The simple, often banal prose contrasts Veronika's bleak inner landscape with the beautiful contours of Slovenia, gradually culminating in an upbeat ending with the message that each day of life is a miracle. Coelho's latest will appeal to readers who enjoy animated homilies about the worth of human existence." Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

(Review by Amazon.com, Photo by Reading Group Guide)

Caribbean Blues with Santaria, 2

“Coming…” my voice shifted from irritated to melodious. Quickly, I jumped out of my bed and scoured my face with a tissue so intensely my nose almost fell to the floor. I sprinted towards the door nearly smashing into my mountain of filthy laundry.

“Coming…” slamming the door behind me, I darted towards the sala.

And before I reached the opening of the passageway, I saw her. She was standing in the middle of the foyer, with arms interweaving with one another. With a harsh look on her face, she just stared at me with those piercing chinita eyes; the world suddenly stood still.

I panted as I reached my destination. She’s still motionless and did not utter a word. Instead, she flashed me that You-Jerk (!) look, with which I reciprocated with an embarrassed smile.

I stretched out my arms to give her a good-morning-hug. “Goooood Mooooor…”

“Dayon!? (And so!?)” She interjected with so much sarcasm, not letting me finish my greeting. Speedily I drew my arms back. Clearly she was not delighted.

“Unsa man? (What now?)” She asked in a very cold tone, I just froze.
“Aaahh…” my voice quivered. No words came out, my throat clogged up.
I cleared my gullet, “Ahem” and feigned a cough “Cough, cough!”
Her right eyebrow instantly went through the ceiling; she hated it whenever I go cough-cough.

“Soooohhhriiiiihhhh…” in a sing-song voice, I managed to croak nervously.
“Abre nang Memento! Kaligo! Pagdali! (Memento’s already open! Take a bath! And fast!)” She snapped back. And at lightning speed, I ran back in.

* * *

To My Santaria, one of my few reasons why waking up every morning is still worthwhile. Thanks for adding brightness into my otherwise desolate life. We may be miles apart, but you are still here … deep inside my *points to chest* Keep singing, keep writing songs. I miss you. I’m coming back, soon. Wait for me… (3:52 a.m., awake and reminiscing…)

Caribbean Blues with Santaria, 1

Knock... Knock... Knock...

I awoke with a jolt. As if an elephant landed on top of me, my eyes flew open. I glanced groggily at the door and lifted my cell phone from the headboard. I checked the time, 9:05 am, scratched my head, groaned “Uhm, hangover, and shut my eyes again.

KNOCK… KNOCK… KNOCK…

Again, I opened my eyes, checked my phone which s now resting on my chest. 9:32 am. I went back to dreamland.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

Once more, I was awakened by the barrage of knocks at my door. I picked up my cell phone, which is now lying on the floor, and checked the time, 9:46 am. “Man! It’s still early.” I muttered to myself.

I closed my eyes again, and hoped the knocks would just go away. But before Mr. Sandman could sprinkle the dust, I was again bombarded with louder knocks.

“What do you want!?” I yelled in a very exasperated tone.
“Lyle!? Naa ka dinha? (Are you there?)” a dorm mate’s voice inquired.

“Of course you jerk! It’s room Sp1a! Now go away! Trying to sleep here!” I shot back. “Someone’s looking for you! And she’s been sitting in the sala for almost an hour now!” he replied. “Tell her I’m still asleep! Away nakog tuktuka balik ha!” I said. irritably.

“LYLE!!!” another voice exclaimed, sending reverberations down the hallway. I’m certain it was a female voice. And it’s coming from the visitor’s lounge. “Gawas na dinha! (Get outta there!)" My eyes swiftly fluttered open. It was her. She must’ve heard me.

Oh man! I thought. I’m dead! We were supposed to meet at the Luce Lobby an hour ago. I totally forgot.

(to be concluded...)

Cousins at the Wharf

It’s good to have cousins; it’s good to have bestfriends. But when you have your cousins as your best friends… who needs other people?

To Anthony and Gayle ... I'm just nearby ... Miss you guys...

Shot August 2005,Dumaguete Wharf, 2:30 in the afternoon. Waiting for Mom, sun’s high up, sweltering! Lyle’s drunk as usual and inebriated due to the Pop-o-pill Mania.

Niña...

There goes another one...

You never fail to surprise us Nins. You surprised everyone when you straightened you hair, when you posed ala-FHM in your Friendster pics ... and now your biggest surprise yet.

Remember 2007? Remember our deal, that we have to graduate together in 07? Hmm, guess that wouldn't be possible now would it? You graduated WAY ahead of time, way ahead of us.

For so little a time, you had touched a lot of lives, Nins, especially mine. Remember History-something? The only subject I passed during that semester. Thanks to your 'stare-that-bites', I was really obliged to come to class. Kung dili, imo nakong gi-iruk.

I'm still in denial Nins. It's so hard to believe that someone so full of life and radiates beauty, now ... gone. I guess I'll just have to comfort myself that your in a much much better place now. Pain is temporary; memories live on.

The world will never be the same without you Nins. You'll be sorely missed. See you next class, Big Momma!

(to the Estacio Family, my heartfelt condolences..)